Perfect Pitch
by sing-oldsongs
Summary: The cabbie is dead and Sherlock is not. The adventure has ended simply and cleanly: it leaves no bad taste in the back of John's mouth. But he doesn't want to go home, to his lonely flat, and Sherlock doesn't want him to, either. Sherlock/John Pre-Slash.


**A/N**: This is my last minute entry for Let's Write Sherlock, Challenge 15, Trope Bingo. Obviously I'm not going to get bingo. I actually didn't even write this recently, I wrote it like the first week of the challenge but kept thinking I'd edit it more and then school started and... anyway, I do apologize for any mistakes. Also for the title, I know it's lame, all my titles are lame and last minute.

This fic's trope is: sharing a bed.

**x**

The cabbie is dead and Sherlock is not. The adventure has ended simply and cleanly: it leaves no bad taste in the back of John's mouth. There is no weight across his shoulders, no guilt, and nothing remains of his excitement just as nothing remains of that high running thrill of fear he'd felt, a perfect pitch of it forcing his aim into true. His adrenaline has dissipated into a bubbly, giggling effervescence. And this mood, which he sees reflected in Sherlock's face, his smile that is satisfied and exuberant, but which ceases very quickly to be grateful, flows all the way through him and fills him and lifts him. He flies all through dinner.

He won't remember their conversation, later, but they seem to laugh the whole time through.

Sherlock picked the restaurant—a small Chinese place with close-clustered tables and a top-rate door handle, or something like that, which John doesn't quite catch—and their seats, at a small, square table in the corner barely big enough for the many dishes, the seconds and the thirds, that they order and devour with barely a pause for breath. John is oddly impressed by Sherlock's appetite. After seeing him eat nothing at Angelo's, he'd expected his new flatmate to be delicate and slow, with a manner to match the length of his musician's fingers or the sway of his coat. But Sherlock is ravenous, excited, and exuberant. It seems a shame to set down their utensils and push away their plates. They settle the bill. John thinks about his flat on the other side of the city, the narrow bed with its crisp-cornered sheets, the simple wardrobe with his shirts hanging neatly and his jumpers and jeans in straight-lined stacks; and he thinks of the mess of papers, books, boxes, lab equipment, cushions, miscellany of every sort that signals Sherlock's home; and he feels that it is _his_ home, too, more than that sad little box where his nightmares so often follow him into the day.

John expects them to pause outside the restaurant door. He expects the easy spell they've woven to break and to give way to an awkward uncertainty between them. Even his best dates slide into these uncomfortable pauses, sooner or later, and this isn't even a date, in any traditional sense of the word. If it were, they'd let the restaurant door close behind them, listen to the delayed whoosh and click and the echo of the bell above ringing their exit, and their eyes would meet, each questioning the other… someone else, some passer-by, would push between them, break the stare before either decided on the right words, and they'd realise they were blocking the door and laugh, flatly, without humour, as they shuffled out of the way… their hands in their pockets, their eyes now not knowing where to look. Each hesitant to ask: _what happens now?_

But this isn't a date, and Sherlock isn't like that: he's either too confident or too naïve, John's not certain yet which. When they leave the restaurant, he puts his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders up against his ears, just for a moment, as if he weren't expecting the light chill after the warm of the inside. It's full dark now. The temperature has dropped while they ate and talked. John pauses for a moment just beyond the door, as it closes behind them (the delayed whoosh, the thin high ringing bell). Sherlock doesn't. He drops his shoulders back down and puts his hands in his pockets, and starts walking back in the direction of Baker Street, of home. John's home is in the opposite direction, but Sherlock doesn't pause for any goodbyes.

Sherlock notices his hesitation, turns around, and tilts his head. "Don't tell me you're planning on spending the night in whatever depressing little bedsit you've been renting. Our flat is furnished. There's a bed in the room upstairs and I don't see any reason you shouldn't sleep in it."

It's a compelling argument.

The lights are still on in 221B, and the door is locked only because John did actually bother to close it before he ran off after Sherlock, hours that feel like days or years ago now. They've both lost their energy. Sherlock is silent as he takes off his scarf, his coat, and John sighs as he toes off his shoes. He realises he's never even seen the upstairs bedroom, that he has nothing with him but the clothes on his back and his phone, no toothbrush or pyjamas or clothes for tomorrow, and that none of this matters because he's definitely moving in and he's definitely staying the night. He's slept in worse conditions, of course, and made more sudden and more stupid decisions, too.

Sherlock makes no conversation, but seems to float off into the bathroom, where, a few minutes later, John hears the sound of a shower running. His throat feels inexplicably dry. Maybe it's the image he can't get out of his head now, water running down Sherlock's long graceful back, bare arms rising to smooth back his wet curls.

Silly.

John pours himself a glass of water and gulps it all down, too fast, while standing at the sink with one hand clenched around the counter top's edge.

Then he walks upstairs.

He hasn't seen Sherlock's bedroom either, but he's fairly sure this is the smaller of the two—which is fine, because this one is cosy and simple, most of the space filled up with furniture, including a small table in the corner that may be good for writing, if he takes to writing, if he doesn't take to writing downstairs instead. There is absolutely nothing in the atmosphere of the place to remind him of the feeling he had, sitting on the edge of his bed in his sparse bedsit, waiting for something that might have been the courage to die. He sits on the edge of his new bed. He rests his elbow on his knee and his head in his hand. He notices absently that he is smiling. He can hear the water running through the pipes.

Yes, this will work out, after all.

There aren't any sheets on the bed, or any blankets, or even any pillows, so when the water shuts off, when he thinks he can hear footsteps and movement down below, he stands up again and walks downstairs. Sherlock is in the kitchen, wearing a blue silk dressing gown and nothing on his feet. He's opening and closing cabinets absently. "Don't tell me you're still hungry?" John asks, smiling, as he leans in the doorway and watches.

"What? Oh, no." Sherlock lets the second cupboard close and turns around to face John, shrugs, and leans back against the counter. "Wondering if I felt like tea…" There is something strange about him that John can't quite pin down. He looks… lost, perhaps. And younger than he did the day before. "Do you want some?"

In this simple, quiet question, John sees it: Sherlock is tired, that's all, and his sleepy, drifting manner deflates his quick and clever confidence and gives him the air of a young boy, his long sugar rush dwindling. He seems minutes from crashing into bed and into sleep.

"No," John answers, forcing himself not to smile, not to think that Sherlock sounds so _sweet_. "No, I'm fine. Thanks."

"Mmmm," Sherlock hums, nodding. "Probably best to sleep."

"Probably."

John knows he should be asking Sherlock if he has some spare sheets or a pillow or two for John to borrow, but somehow, the words don't come. Instead (because it's what's really on his mind or because Sherlock's face is so open that he believes he'll get a real answer, this time), he asks, "Sherlock, were you really going to take that pill?"

Sherlock blinks at him. He looks as if he didn't understand the question. But this is another act, these innocent wide eyes, and it occurs to John that everything right now might be an act. It occurs to him that he will always wonder this about Sherlock, even when his face seems so particularly sincere.

"You already know," Sherlock answers, which is the same as saying nothing at all. He knows very well that John has no idea. "Are you going to wear that to bed?"

The question sounds intimate, said so quietly and curiously; it almost makes John blush. He looks down at himself, sees his street clothes, and thinks, _well of course not, but what else is there to wear?_

"I'll lend you something," Sherlock offers, and leads the way to his bedroom down the hall. It is bigger than the upstairs room, just as John predicted, and messy with unopened boxes, a suitcase flipped open on the floor, spewing clothes. But the bed is made and there's a lamp on the bedside table that provides just enough light. Sherlock, at least, looks completely at home. He shoves a bundle of clothes, a t-shirt and a pair of striped pyjama bottoms, into John's arms, and gestures to a door of marbled glass that must lead, John realises, to the bathroom.

"Thanks," he says, which seems strangely inadequate.

The bathroom is bigger than he thought it would be. For some odd reason, this disconcerts him. He borrows some of Sherlock's toothpaste but uses his finger instead of Sherlock's toothbrush, which seems a bit too intimate—more so than wearing his t-shirt or saving his life—then finds himself fixing his hair as if he were going out instead of tucking in. There's not much to fix. He might let it grow out, see how it goes. Can he pull off a shaggy look?

He strips out of his jumper, his t-shirt, his jeans and socks, takes a piss and washes his hands before he pulls on the soft, worn, blue t-shirt Sherlock lent him. It fits fairly well. It smells, unsurprisingly, disappointingly, like the wash. The pyjama bottoms are too long at the legs and too small at the waist; he could manage in them but he'd rather not, so he slips them off again, folds them without thinking, and leaves them on top of the laundry basket.

When he pokes his head into the bedroom again, Sherlock is already under the covers, curled on his side facing away from the lamp, toward the blank and open left side of the bed. It's big enough for two. It might just be that Sherlock likes his side, always sleeps there where he can easily reach the light and the bedside table, or that he's not used to a double bed and is pretending the other half isn't there, or, maybe, that he wasn't always married to his work and he still sleeps as if his partner were lying next to him, which John somewhat understands, because he has habits too. But it looks like an invitation.

And it seems a little late to ask where the spare sheets are, and he doesn't feel like sleeping on a bare mattress, upstairs all alone.

Sherlock makes a vague noise, low and grumbling; the shape of him rises and then falls under the blankets. _Okay_, John thinks. _Okay I'm coming_. The words ring like a message from the future, his tone a little short, a little annoyed—as if he'd been called to bed like this again and again, as if his normal routine were keeping Sherlock up and this happens all the time, that wonderful impatient sod—but John doesn't feel annoyed. He feels a little nervous. Like he is stepping into strange and unknown territory.

It's just getting into bed with someone, after all. Just getting into bed with a flatmate, a near-stranger, perhaps a friend.

He pulls back the blankets, sits down, and looks over his shoulder. Sherlock's face is half in the light and half in the shadow and his eyes are closed, quiet and innocent in rest. John lies down on his back and arranges the blankets over himself again. He watches Sherlock's arm reach up and back and fumble for the light without looking, and then the room is in darkness and his eyes, not yet adjusted, see nothing at all.

"Good night," Sherlock mumbles.

"Night," John echoes.

He's tired but still wide awake, and it will be a while, yet, before he stops feeling awkward and not quite in place, and starts to feel like he's home. Sherlock's breathing is steady and even.

"I should warn you," John says suddenly, interrupting nothing but the quiet, and feeling guilty for it—his voice too loud—"I should warn you that I have nightmares, sometimes." He almost adds, _but you probably already knew that_, then doesn't, afraid it would sound mocking.

Sherlock's soft voice answers him out of the darkness. "Yes, so do I." Then he reaches out and pats John's arm gently. "Sometimes."

John wants to find some answer to this. Some words that express gratitude, or sympathy. An acknowledgement at least. But nothing comes, not even the wrong words, and while he's still waiting for the right ones he realises that Sherlock's breathing has quieted and slowed with sleep. So instead of trying to think, he just listens. It feels odd to have another body so close, especially this body, which is equally beautiful and untouchable and whose heart is only beating, still, because of John. It feels odd but not unpleasant. He wants to turn on his side and pull Sherlock closer, but he can't, or won't, and as the image rolls around and around in his brain, he feels himself slipping off. His breathing will be as even as Sherlock's, in time, and his thoughts as blissfully quiet and undisturbed.


End file.
